


Welcome Home, Sir

by Whisper91



Series: Downtime [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Cuddles, D/s, Discipline, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Needy Clint, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Restraints, Smut, Spanking, Sub Clint Barton, Subdrop, Subspace, corner time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil's been gone almost two weeks on S.H.I.E.L.D business, and Clint's been benched from field duty while his fingers mend. They both have their reasons for needing this. </p><p>(Or the one where Clint sometimes needs to be broken so that he can be put back together again by the person he trusts the most.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clint’s still towelling his hair dry from his post-workout shower when his cell phone buzzes. He slings the damp towel around his neck, tugging on a pair of boxer briefs before ambling over to the living room and snagging it from its resting place on the coffee table.

_Pick a corner. 15 minutes. – Phil_

A hot thrill rolls through him at the words, a wide grin blooming on his face, and he has to re-type his reply _(“Yes, sir.”)_ three times so that the text doesn’t resemble a giant keyboard smash, his thumbs clumsy against the touchpad as he navigates around the furniture in the living room without glancing up from his inbox, making a beeline for the most spacious corner in the room. He hits ‘send’, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes fixed on the screen as he shuffles his feet closer to the wall and tucks his forehead into the triangular point, head bent over his phone. There’s only a brief pause (wrought with nervous tension and anticipation), before the device buzzes a second time.

_Good boy._

And that’s all it takes. Two words and he’s already sinking into the hazy warmth and security of his own headspace, heat thrumming beneath the surface of his skin and pulsing in sync with his heartbeat.

Fuck. It looks like he’s going to drop fast tonight.

And it’s no surprise really. With Phil having been away liaising with S.H.I.E.L.D. Japan for the past eleven days and Clint officially on leave from active duty (barring an international emergency) until his broken fingers have had a chance to heal, it’s been a difficult couple of weeks. The archer would probably have gone stir crazy a long time ago if not for their nightly vid-cam chats, Phil’s voice a familiar, soothing rumble through the speakers as Clint knelt on the bed and touched himself as instructed, flushed and sweating and desperate. But still, video calls aren’t a patch on the real thing. He misses Phil more than he thought possible; craves the man’s touch like he’s been starved of it for months. He can’t help it; the agent’s addictive.

He tries to stay still in the corner, tries to centre himself and focus on letting himself sink down further, but the anticipation is too much, and he finds himself re-reading the texts just to experience that warm burst in his chest at the _‘good boy’_ , hearing the words spoken in Phil’s dulcet tones, love and command and amusement and affection all wrapped up seamlessly into that one phrase. He’s grinning like an idiot again before he can help it, but it’s not like anyone’s here to see it, except the tropical fish in the wall-mounted tank. He can grin all he wants.

The fifteen minutes seem to crawl by unfairly slowly, and he has to force himself to put the phone down on the floor to keep himself from texting Phil again, pressing his hands against the wall either side of the corner and pressing his forehead against the cool, painted plaster, toes curling against the plush carpet beneath his feet. He usually loathes corner-time with a passion (Phil often uses it as a method of discipline for that very reason, as Clint tends to be squirming in place after only five minutes), but there’s something different to it in these situations, when Phil’s not there to supervise him, when his partner’s trusting him to stay put because he believes that Clint _can_. And it’s that distinction that tips the scale between pleasure and torment, making him half-hard where he stands just from the knowledge that Phil _wants_ him here, that he’s obeying his Dom, that Phil will be home any minute now with his warmth and his presence and his _fucking amazing hands_ , and it’s going to be everything Clint wants and needs.

With his characteristic display of impeccable timing, the latch on the front door clicks, the soft _‘beep’_ of the security port that means the new arrival has passed both the fingerprint recognition and the retina imaging scans to disable the automatic magnetic seal. Given that there are only two people to whom Phil has granted total access to his apartment, other than Clint - one of them being a Russian badass who is currently located somewhere in Paris on an espionage mission, the other being Nick Fury, who would likely only visit in the event of Phil’s sudden demise – that really only leaves the apartment owner himself.

So rather than turning around, Clint forces himself to go still, keeping his hands pressed against the wall and his head bowed, his breathing slow and controlled.

Behind him, he hears slow, measured footsteps approaching, barely a whisper of noise against the plush carpet but loud in the otherwise silent room. He feels the heat of another body behind him and his heartbeat rockets up, dancing a samba in his chest, and it’s all he can do not to sink immediately to his knees and beg to be fucked when Phil’s warm, gentle hand strokes down from the nape of his neck to his tailbone.

“Good boy,” the older man murmurs, breath warm against his ear as the fabric of his suit brushes against Clint’s side, and the archer can’t suppress a shiver at the praise, skin prickling hot beneath Phil’s hand when it slides back up his spine slowly. “Look at you. So good for me, Clint.”

Head dropping down a little more (because _holy fuck_ , the things that man’s voice do to him), Clint lets out an involuntary moan of pure _want_ , but his throat catches the sound before it’s fully formed and comes out closer to a whimper than anything else.

Phil’s chuckle is deep, full of fond warmth, and Clint’s pretty sure his knees are going to buckle if the man does that again. As if sensing this, a strong arm circles his waist from behind, and Clint cracks an eyelid open to peer at him, letting out another choked-off sound of arousal when he sees the rolled-up shirtsleeve, Phil clearly having divested himself of his suit jacket (and his _tie_ , dear god in heaven) before he got to Clint.

“I’ve got plans for you tonight,” his partner tells him, the words hot against the shell of Clint’s ear. “I’ve been thinking about it all week. How I’m going to take you apart,” a soft kiss is pressed to the side of his throat, and Clint’s breath hitches, “slowly,” another kiss, lower down this time, “meticulously. Until you’ve forgotten up from down and left from right, and the only thing you’re certain of is how desperately you want to come.”

Clint can’t breathe for a moment, the surge of arousal overwhelming and all-encompassing, heat coiling deep within him as his bloodflow redirects itself southwards.

Oh fuck. _Ohfuckohfuckohfuck..._

“Is that what you want, Clint?” Phil asks him mildly, and _shit¸_ the way he says it; the ‘ _would you pass the salt, please?’_ tone of voice that manages to be casual and powerful all at once. He manages a shaky nod, breath stuttering in his chest.

“No,” Phil chastises, still in the same mild tone, and there’s amusement there now. “I asked you a question, little boy. I expect a verbal answer.”

Clint sucks in a sharp breath, the endearment hitting him like a sucker-punch of lust to the gut, and his fingers twitch where they’re still pressed against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Yes, sir,” he forces out, and it’s breathless and wanton and strained with desire. “Please.”

Another soft, amused hum behind him, and one of Phil’s hands caresses the smooth muscle of his abdomen, deft fingers tracing scars and gentle contours as though mapping out his musculature. Then the hand drops further south, sliding over the fabric of his boxer briefs, and Clint’s breath hitches again because _Jesus fuck_ , he’s about ten seconds from coming from that alone.

“You’re already so hard for me,” Phil murmurs, clearly pleased with the fact, and he rewards Clint by stroking him teasingly through the material of his underwear. Although perhaps ‘torture’ is a more adequate term, exquisite though it may be, because after eleven days without Phil’s hands on him it’s too much all at once and he’s choking on the moans that want to force their way out, hips twitching forwards against the delicious pressure of his Dom’s hand.

“No,” Phil says again, and while it’s still warm and teasing, there’s a stern note underlying it now that sends shivers down Clint’s spine. The hand releases him, and Clint’s both devastated at the loss and overwhelmed with relief at the reprieve.

“You’re going to be good for me,” the older man tells him firmly. “Aren’t you, Clint?”

He nods his head again, forgetting about the previous warning regarding verbal answers, and receives a bullet-fast swat to the back of his thigh for his silence. He sucks in a sharp breath, flushing hot all over and rocking forward with the impact.

“Yes! Yes, sir, I’ll be good, I’ll try.”

“Hm. Maybe you’d benefit from a little additional persuasion,” Phil comments, thoughtfully. He hand gently rubs the stinging mark on his thigh (Clint can’t see it, but he knows there’s a mark, there always is, Phil’s hands are fucking amazing like that).

As if sensing Clint’s train of thought, Phil’s hand slides further up to gently cup the curve of his ass. He gives it a gentle squeeze, then a light, teasing pat. Clint holds his breath, both hoping for and dreading what he knows is going to come later this evening. Even without the verbal confirmation, the signs are there. It’s a familiar dance between them. And he _wants_ it – god, does he want it. The past two weeks have been their own special brand of hell, and he needs to unwind, needs a chance to vent the frustrations and stresses of fourteen days without any range time (fucking broken fingers). He needs to walk that fine line between pleasure and pain tonight.

But he’s scared of it too, in a way. Deliciously scared, yes, but scared all the same. Because Phil can take him apart like no other man, can peel back the layered facade and expose him at his most vulnerable, forcing him into a headspace where he can simply _be_. Needless to say, it isn’t an emotionless process. And for a man who wears stoicism like a shroud on a daily basis, Clint won’t pretend that the experience is always a little daunting.

But fuck, he still wants it.

“It’s been a while since I took you over my knee,” Phil says at last, conversationally. And that’s the last nail in the coffin of Clint’s stoicism. He drops his head further forward, a warm hand catching him across his brow before his skull can impact with the wall, cushioning his forehead against it. Oh God. He’s already feeling a little weak-kneed and they haven’t even started yet.

Phil’s lips brush his ear again. “I think we’ll have to remedy that tonight, don’t you?”

There are a number of answers Clint could give to that; it’s a deliberately leading question, one that allows Clint to change the mood of the game a little, if he so desires. If he were to say ‘no’, to defy Phil with open stubbornness, it would be an invitation for his partner to be firmer, more forceful, _rough_ even. And while that prospect turns Clint’s stomach into liquid fire, arousal pulsing in his veins, it isn’t what he _needs_. Not tonight. He needs a firm hand, that’s for certain, but he also craves Phil’s gentle praise in a way he hasn’t in _months._ He wants to be told he’s doing well, to be encouraged to take _more_ , to try _harder_ , to be soothed and held and comforted through what he anticipates is going to be a dizzyingly fast and heavy descent into subspace.

So really, while there’s half a dozen answers he might give, there’s really only one reply that he _can_.

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

 

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint may have a minor obsession with Phil's hands, but who can blame him?

 

It’s only been two minutes since Phil tugged him away from the corner and into his arms, but Clint’s already sinking fast. Phil’s hands are _everywhere_ , warm and gentle, possessive and demanding – everything that Clint needs them to be. Under different circumstances, he’d be taking advantage of Phil’s current state of undress (he has a _thing_ about the senior SHIELD agent in casual attire, and the lack of suit jacket and tie are a serious aphrodisiac right now), but unfortunately his arms have decided to stop working properly, hanging loosely by his sides as he leans into Phil’s embrace and angles his head to the side with a choked-off sound as his partner sucks a promisingly vivid bruise into the sensitive skin of his throat.

“Mm,” Phil hums appreciatively, pulling away far enough to critique his handiwork. “That’s better. Your neck was starting to look a little too bare for my liking.”

“Sorry,” Clint rasps. He’s too lost in the tingling warmth pulsing through his limbs to properly follow the conversation; but if in doubt, apologise.

Phil sniffs a grin against his throat, pressing a whisper of a kiss against the bruise. “It’s not your fault. Marks fade, and two weeks is a long time.”

The archer makes a disgruntled noise of agreement, one hand coming up to rest on Phil’s hip as he tilts his head enough to nuzzle the man’s cheek.

“Missed you.”

The senior agent takes that as an open invitation to plunder Clint’s mouth. Quite thoroughly. Toes curling in the plush living room carpet, Clint’s lips part beneath the onslaught, eyes sliding closed again as he lets Phil angle his head the way he wants to, one warm hand cupping Clint’s jaw while the other slides over his back, his hip, his ass, leaving a trail of tingling warmth in its wake.

Fuck, it feels so good. He wants it to never, ever end with the same lust-fuelled conviction that he also wants to bend over and present himself so that Phil can _fuck him already._

Some nights, Phil skips this slow build-up and heads straight to the main event, carrying out the promised discipline session right there and then in the living room, yanking Clint across his knees so suddenly and unexpectedly that it never fails to leave him breathless, stunned; immobilised through shock more than anything else as Phil takes advantage of his temporary paralysis and secures him down with an arm pinned at the small of his back, a strong leg crossed over both of his thighs. Those evenings, the spankings are quick, sharp, and devastatingly thorough. Never let it be suggested that Phil Coulson lacks physical strength compared to younger SHIELD agents; Clint’s backside can attest to the contrary. The sessions don’t always reduce him to tears – he’s a tough bastard, wouldn’t be worth much as an Avenger if he bawled over a few enthusiastic love-taps – but Phil can make them hard enough that Clint  _can_  cry, if he needs to. And some nights he does, when he slips far enough, when he needs that release more than the immediate, enticing warmth of arousal.

But tonight Phil’s clearly decided to draw things out, to set alight every nerve in Clint’s body with fingers and lips and teeth until he’s so far gone that any hope of keeping his composure is a long-forgotten dream. He’s steadily guiding Clint backwards towards the bedroom with slow, measured steps, but his hands don’t stop wandering over the archer’s body for so much as a second. They successfully navigate around the furniture on their way out of the living room and down the hallway, Phil leading him with soft nudges even as he steals the younger man’s attention with another searing kiss. Every so often, one of those gentle, commanding,  _amazing_  hands slips down and around to land a teasing swat to the seat of Clint’s boxers, and it’s all the younger agent can do not to bend himself over the nearest item of furniture in the hopes that his partner will take pity on him in his desperate state and give it to him _now_.

Phil seems to read his mind (as per usual), and leans back from where he’s been sucking another love-bite into Clint’s neck to smile at him, his eyes alight with fond mirth.

“Settle down,” he murmurs softly, but with absolute authority, and Clint shivers at the tone.

His Dom’s lips twitch into a dangerous half-grin, a hand squeezing Clint’s ass cheek warningly before landing a hard, heavy swat against the tender flesh there, Phil’s gaze unwavering as he watches his sub’s reaction. The sudden shock of pain-heat-pleasure-warmth rocks Clint forward against his partner, jarring sharp gasp from him as his own hands curl into the fabric of Phil’s shirt, fingers shaking. His splinted digits ache at the strength of his grip, but beneath the building wave of burning arousal, it’s hardly a concern.

Phil seems to disagree. Only a matter of seconds later, the pad of an index finger taps the back of his injured appendage twice.

“Let go, Clint.”

He could disobey. He’s done it before. They’ve played this game long enough that Phil knows to give his partner a little leeway in his submission, an invitation for Clint to direct the session where he needs it to go. It’s not about giving the control  _back_  to him, Phil had once explained, when Clint had initially balked at the prospect of being in charge of a scene. Rather, it’s about letting Clint decide whether he wants to submit willingly or under duress; to be forced into that intoxicating headspace by a firm hand or a gentle one. This in-scene negotiation has worked pretty well for the both of them, on the whole. The archer can’t call to mind a single session where he’s regretted pushing Phil to discipline him a little harder (or regretted _not_ pushing him), nor has he ever felt compelled to Safeword out of a scene. The word is always there, though, tucked away at the back of his mind, an Emergency Release button preserved behind a glass screen that he’s never felt the need to so much as tap upon in the past.

“Clint.” There’s a stinging flick to the back of his wrist, and the archer startles from his thoughts, realising (with a deliciously thrilling curl of dread in his stomach) that his fingers are  _still_  gripping Phil’s shirt. “What did I just tell you to do?”

He drops his hands quickly, cheeks heating in a sudden blush, breath quickening a little as he glances up and sees Phil’s less-than-amused expression. He’s excited and mortified in equal measure for the unintentional disobedience, however minor it may be.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, putting his hands down by his sides in an attempt to make up for his mistake. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to-”

Half a second later, he’s staring at the carpeted floor of the hallway, having been bent over at the waist and tucked under Phil’s left arm in one smooth motion, a broad forearm curled tight around his torso.

Fuck. They haven’t even made it to the bedroom yet.

His eyes widen, the sudden shock of his new position leaving him reeling, hands scrabbling to clutch at the strong arm that keeps him bent over as he feels his thin cotton boxers being briskly pulled down to mid-thigh. Already aroused beyond description, he feels heat coil tightly in his belly, an almost-painful pulsing engulfing his already straining erection as it springs free from the confines of his underwear.

The first half-dozen spanks steal the breath from his lungs, delivered with punishing strength and speed (it quickly becomes apparent that this is indeed intended as discipline, rather than being the playful swats that Phil usually starts out with if he’s doing things gently) against his unprepared backside.

“Nooo,” Clint whimpers, a token protest, hissing through his teeth at the solid smacks and clinging for dear life to the arm that keeps him so firmly in position.

It does nothing to lessen the force of the blows, nor deter Phil from his steady, punishing pace. And fuck, it stings. Regardless of the length of time that passes between these ‘hands-on’ sessions, Clint always manages to forget just how much a spanking from his partner  _hurts_ , especially when Phil’s putting a considerable amount of force into it like he is now.

The second dozen are delivered more slowly, an almost agonisingly lengthy pause between each strike to allow the full effect of the throbbing burn to sink in before another falls and stokes the fire that much hotter. Clint is almost dancing on his toes by the end of it, dizzy with the onslaught of arousal and need and entirely incapable of stoicism, soft noises escaping his lips at every strike, caught somewhere between a moan and a whimper. Phil’s firm hold on him doesn’t waver for so much as a microsecond, despite Clint’s squirming.

His ears buzz during the silence left in the wake of the brief spanking, his breath coming out in short, shallow pants as his partner’s hand strokes slowly over his tingling, throbbing cheeks, rubbing in slow circles.

“There. That’s better.” Phil’s voice is calm, almost business-like as he tugs up the cotton underwear, but Clint knows him well enough to hear the warmth and fondness in the words. “Are you going to be a good boy for me now?”

Clint nods quickly, still clutching at the arm that’s wrapped around his torso, feeling strangely shaky and fuzzy in a way that means he’s already dropped a considerable way into that intoxicating headspace. “Yessir. M’sorry.”

“Mm,” Phil hums again, and heaves him back upright, keeping a steadying hold on his hips when Clint’s wobbly knees threaten to buckle. God, he’s so  _hard_  already. He keeps his gaze down, grateful for the strong arms around him, and feels his eyes slide closed again when a hand gently cups his jaw. It tips his chin up, and soft lips press against the corner of his mouth. A strangled, needy whimper escapes his lips before he can supress it.

The pad of Phil’s thumb sweeps gently across his cheekbone. “Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He leans into the touch, turning his head until he can press his lips against the palm of Phil’s hand, his eyes still closed as though afraid he’ll somehow break the spell and wake up alone in bed with Phil still stuck in Japan if he dares to open them. Phil shifts, and warm lips press briefly against his brow, his nose, his cheek, before his Dom’s hands move to hold him more firmly, tugging gently and guiding Clint further along the hallway.

He does open his eyes then, out of necessity, because while he trusts Phil with his life, stubbed toes are a serious mood-killer and he’s not willing to spoil this, not when he’s waited  _two fucking weeks_  to have Phil to himself again. In a matter of moments, they’re in the bedroom and Phil’s guiding him over to the bed. However, rather than sitting down on the end of the mattress and upending Clint over his lap as is their usual tradition, his partner stops and slides a hand up to rest in Clint’s hair.

“Kneel for me.”

It’s almost second nature by now, when it’s just the two of them and the mood is right, and Clint swears his brain hardly even has to process the command before his knees are already hitting the soft, spongy mat they’d placed there months ago for this very purpose. Phil’s hand stays cradling his scalp for a moment, tugging at his hair gently, his fingers carding through it as Clint’s head drops forward a little more. Then he stoops, brushing a kiss against the archer’s temple.

“Stay,” he murmurs against Clint’s skin, and the younger man can only swallow and give a low, husky “ _yes sir”_ in response.

Phil moves away, and Clint misses his presence immediately. He keeps his eyes closed and his head bowed, instead attuning his ears to the quiet sounds in the room, the rustle of fabric and the rough wood-on-wood scrape of drawers being opened in the dresser. The light switch to the adjoining bathroom clicks on, accompanied by the soft _whirr_ of the automatic fan, and half a beat later he can hear the sound of water running. Clint tries not to squirm impatiently at that, tries to remain still and wait for Phil to return, wanting (no, _needing_ ) to be good, to be told he’s done well, to soak up his partner’s praise and let it obliterate the stresses and anxieties of the past two weeks.

After what feels like decades, but in reality probably less than five minutes, he hears Phil’s footsteps drawing near again. He refrains from glancing up, keeping his head bowed, and is rewarded when a warm hand settles on the nape of is neck, squeezing gently.

“Good boy.”

The bed creaks quietly as Phil sits down in front of him, and Clint does open his eyes then, leaning two inches forwards so that he can rest his forehead against the clothed knee in front of him, sighing happily when Phil’s fingers begin to stroke through his hair.

“It’s been a long couple of weeks, huh, baby?”

It’s not really a question; Phil’s always been able to read him like an open book and being benched from field duty and grounded from range-time while his fingers heal have left Clint fractious and tense. But he nods anyway, the smooth fabric of Phil’s pants rubbing against his skin with the movement, and let’s the term of endearment warm him in all the right places.

“I know,” Phil agrees, his other hand stroking down the side of Clint’s face that isn’t smushed against his knee, until he can brush a thumb against Clint’s lips. The archer kisses it gently, reverently, then sucks the pad of the digit into his mouth, opening his eyes to glance up at Phil, shivering at the blown pupils and intense gaze he finds there.

Phil pulls the thumb out of his mouth slowly and traces Clint’s lips with the edge of his thumbnail. “I’m going to take you apart tonight,” he promises quietly. “Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

Clint swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion as he holds Phil’s gaze. “Yes, sir. Please.”

With a decisive nod, Phil withdraws his hands and reaches for something on the bed beside him. He holds up a familiar strip of black cloth.

“Colour?”

“Green,” Clint replies immediately, though the syllable is almost swallowed by the thickness of his voice. Oh, god, he _needs_ this. Needs it more than he has done in _months_. “Green, sir.”

A moment later his world is plunged into darkness, deft fingers securing the blindfold around his eyes. There’s a tender, fleeting touch to his cheek, but it’s gone a moment later, and now Clint has to rely on verbal prompts alone rather than his partner’s body language. He’s grateful for Phil’s intuition. That’s one less puzzle for him to solve, one less detail that would otherwise keep him grounded to the here and now. He’s been obeying Phil’s voice for years, been soothed and guided and protected by the calm tones spoken through his earpiece on SHIELD ops, and there’s something comfortingly familiar about relying on words alone during intimate moments like this.

“Stand up for me,” Phil murmurs quietly.

Clint does so, a little shakily, his legs feeling weak from kneeling for an extended period of time. Phil’s hands settle on his arms to steady him, then slide down slowly to his wrists, gripping them tightly and carefully drawing them around to Clint’s back. Clint knows the unspoken command, and keeps them held there even when Phil’s hands withdraw again. There are fingers on the hem of his boxers a moment later, tugging them down slowly; a torturous slide of fabric over his still-humming backside and too-hard cock. They slide further still, down over his thighs and past his knees to pool on the floor at his ankles. There’s a gentle tap to his calf muscle, prompting him to step out of the fabric, and he does so without losing balance or poise.

But nothing can stop his startled jerk, nor his cry of surprise, when a warm mouth engulfs his straining erection a moment later. It’s exquisite, hot and intense and almost too much to bear after so long without any friction at all. He tries not to buck his hips, tries to hold still, but Phil is just _too good_ at this, and when one of those warm, talented hands snakes around to start lightly swatting his cheeks in rhythm with the sucking, he’s doomed.

“Hnng,” he manages, between gasping breaths, crossing his wrists behind him resolutely to keep from bringing his hands forward to clutch at Phil. “Oh f- aah! Sir, please, I…I can’t…!”

“Shhh. Easy, Clint,” Phil’s tone is warm with amusement, and a slick hand replaces his mouth, stroking expertly in a way that threatens to make Clint’s knees buckle. “We’ve only just started. Here; let me help.”

There’s an almost uncomfortably tight squeeze around his balls, then a soft _click_ , leaving a firm pressure in its wake around the base of his shaft. Clint realises with another curl of dread that it’s a cock-ring. _Oh, shit_. Phil hadn’t been joking when he’d promised to ‘take him apart’ tonight. Delaying his release is something Clint loves and hates in equal measure, rather like spanking. He knows the end result will be mind-blowing, but he also knows the intermediate period will be torturous, and Phil’s a talented bastard when it comes to edging him.

Suddenly the hands on his hips grow firm, yanking Clint forward, and it’s only his absolute trust in Phil’s capabilities that keep the archer from flinging his hands out to catch himself. He does uncross his wrists, though, in an aborted movement of surprise; but Phil’s only lowering him expertly over his knees, guiding Clint’s weight down with strong arms supporting his torso and waist. A moment later there’s the soft fabric of the bedspread cushioning his upper body, Phil’s firm muscled thighs supporting his weight at his midriff, the height of the bed leaving his legs dangling down and his toes barely brushing against the floor.

His breath hitches at the new position, which feels a hundred times more intimate without the use of his sight. Phil’s hand is stroking his bare skin, teasing his still-tingling cheeks, and he shivers at the touch.

“I think you’ve already had enough of a warm-up tonight,” Phil says, conversationally. His fingernails drag lightly over his sensitive skin and Clint’s legs jerk in response. “But is _has_ been a while since I had you over my knee like this. Far too long, don’t you think?”

Clint gives another shaky nod, cheek rubbing against the bedspread with the motion, his breath hitching again as he feels Phil’s left arm curl around his lower back, anchoring him down firmly.

“You aren’t being punished,” his partner reminds him, because sometimes Clint needs that distinction, especially if he’s had a crappy week. He nods again, and Phil rewards him by leaning over his back (Clint can’t see it, of course, but he can feel the change in weight distribution) and pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’ve been so good while I’ve been away, Clint. You haven’t broken your grounding once, even though I know you’ve been bored out of your mind most of the time. I’m so proud of you.”

Clint feels a stupid smile tugging at his lips at the praise, the warmth in his chest swelling fit to burst, spreading out so that it fans all the way down to his curling toes.

“Thank you, sir.”

Phil trails his fingers slowly up and down Clint’s inner thigh. “Think you can be good for me a little longer?”

Clint’s nod is enthusiastic enough that he suspects he’s managed to get a friction burn on his cheek. “Yessir, please. I’ll be good.”

His partner gives a breathy sort of laugh that sets pleasant butterflies aflutter in Clint’s stomach, sliding his hand all the way back up to rest on the centre of Clint’s bottom. Then he lifts it away and the archer tenses at the cool air that kisses his skin, mourning the loss of Phil’s warm touch even though he knows his backside will feel all _too_ warm in just a moment.

There’s enough of a pause that the first smack takes him completely by surprise. He startles with the sting, sucking in a sharp breath, only to have it explode from him in a half-grunt-half-whimper when a second, harder swat follows less than a second afterwards. Phil clearly isn’t holding back tonight. Deprived of his sight, Clint can only focus on the sound and sensation of each strike, the echoing slap of skin-on-skin, the sharp, hot sting that follows instantaneously.

And fuck, it feels _amazing_. His limbs are already growing heavier and fuzzier, the narrowing his focus to his burning rear end and his throbbing cock now trapped snugly between Phil’s thighs. He’s making noises, and he’s not quiet about it either, but he’s helpless to stop himself. Every hard smack jerks him forward a little, and the friction that causes against the inside of Phil’s clothed thighs is glorious.

At one point he realises he’s no longer got his wrists crossed behind his back, one hand clutching at the comforter beneath his head to ground himself as he writhes and moans over Phil’s lap, his other hand held securely against his hip by Phil’s own, the man’s forearm braced firmly over the small of his back to keep him from squirming right off his lap.

On and on it goes, until it _burns_ , until the pain-pleasure balance is rocking to and fro like a seesaw and Clint doesn’t know whether he wants _more_ or wants Phil to _stop, please, owww_. His throat feels thick and achy, his eyes stinging behind the blindfold, his backside alight with prickling heat, but he’s also _never felt so fucking good_ in his life. It would be a confusing experience, had he not been in this position dozens of times in the past.

It’s not until the only sound in the room is his own hitching, gasping breaths that Clint realises Phil has finally stopped spanking him. His bottom seems to be pulsing in sync with the rapid staccato beating of his heart, his face hot and flushed, the fabric of the bedspread a little damp beneath his cheek from tears and sweat alike.

“Shhh,” Phil soothes, the first sound he’s uttered since the spanking began. His hand is a soothing balm now, cupping each cheek in turn as though to feel the heat of his punished skin, before moving lower and stroking slowly up and down the tops of his thighs where the stinging burn isn’t so intense. “That’s it, good boy. Breathe for me.”

Clint takes another hitching breath, and another, feeling both torn asunder and in the midst of partying on cloud nine. It’s a baffling split, like his body isn’t sure if he wants to cry some more or suck Phil off or go to sleep for a week. Luckily, he doesn’t have to make the decisions any more. Phil can figure out the complicated stuff, Clint just needs to do as he’s told. And he’s more than happy to do so.

“Come on, up you come. Shhh, easy, I’ve got you.”

He’s being moved somewhere. He’s glad Phil’s so fucking strong, because Clint’s limbs are ninety percent mush and ten percent gloop, and he’s not a whole lot of help as he’s carefully lifted up and turned over. The hard thighs are beneath his backside now– oh, _ouch_ – but then Phil’s hand is cradling his head, fingers curling gently in his hair, guiding him to rest his cheek against a solid surface. The less-fuzzy part of his brain identifies the comfortable nook as being Phil’s neck, and he burrows into it unashamedly, fingers clumsily clutching at Phil’s shirt again.

His Dom doesn’t reprimand him this time, instead holding him close, arms wrapped around him securely and one hand still resting in his hair. Soft words are being murmured into his ear, silly endearments that he’d normally role his eyes at if they were anywhere else but here, words that every fibre of him just _craves_ to hear. He’s a good boy, a beautiful boy, Phil’s so proud of him, he took that so well, such a brave boy, Phil’s got him, he’s safe, he’s alright.

He drifts comfortably through that haze of warmth and nothingness, riding the buzz that’s thrumming through his limbs. He floats there for a while, heartbeat calming and breathing slowing, until he becomes acutely alert of a heightening sense of pleasure, and returns to awareness with a high-pitched whine, shuddering and curling into Phil’s body as the sensation builds rapidly. Phil’s hand is on his cock, pumping him slowly but firmly, the slick sound of it audible even above Clint’s whimpers.

“Edge for me, sweetheart, that’s it,” Phil murmurs, a ragged sort of quality to his voice that sucker-punches Clint with lust. “Come on, let me see it.”

He buries his face in Phil’s neck with a choked-off cry, the pleasure heightening by the second, seeing stars behind his blindfold as it reaches an almost painful peak. He writhes in Phil’s lap, clinging to him frantically, whining a high-pitched note of desperation in the back of his throat.

Phil’s hand releases him a moment later, and it’s as much as relief as it is a disappointment. Clint sobs a few panting breaths against Phil’s throat, shaking as the pleasure ebbs away to leave a needy, urgent, throbbing heat in its wake.

“Good boy,” Phil whispers, sounding a little breathless himself. He gently nudges Clint out from his hiding place in the hollow of his throat (Clint makes a noise of protest at losing his comfortable nook), but then his Dom’s mouth is on his, kissing him hungrily.

Clint melts into the kiss, parting his lips at the probing tongue, head spinning at the intensity of it. Phil’s kissing him like a man possessed, one hand cradling Clint’s head to hold him still, the other arm wrapped securely around him as though expecting Clint to suddenly vanish from the safety of his lap. It’s hot and fiery and sets liquid fire running through Clint’s veins again.  

Phil breaks the kiss just as abruptly, his breathing slightly ragged as he cups the archer’s cheek, and a moment later Clint feels his Dom’s forehead press against his own, equally as sweaty.

“I want to fuck you,” he murmurs, and _shit_ , hearing that word from Phil’s lips will never cease to be hot. Clint nods shakily, fingers coming up to clutch at the wrist of the hand that cups his cheek.

“Yes, sir. _Please_.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Phil’s hands are a tender reassurance as he moves Clint further up the bed, guiding him backwards and urging him down until there are soft cushions beneath his head and shoulders that he can sink into with a quiet, subspace-drunk sigh of content. He’s grateful for his Dom’s support; even if he hadn’t been blindfolded, he wouldn’t have been capable of getting here unaided. His arms and legs are still weak and shaky post-spanking, the warmth of his recent drop still sitting heavy around him, making his thoughts fuzzy and his reflexes poor.

It’s always a little unsettling, this intermediate stage, where his consciousness is battling between almost-full awareness and the enticing _let’s-not-give-a-fuck-about-anything_ pull of subspace. But Phil’s there, touching and kissing and caressing constantly, interminably soothing by his mere presence, and Clint’s hard-pressed to remember what he was worried about in the first place.

“I’m going to cuff you,” the older man tells him calmly, factually, and Clint gives a shaky nod even though it hadn’t been a question. They’ve been together long enough now that Phil knows what he wants, how far Clint likes to be pushed, whether he needs a firm hand or a gentle one.

The blindfold still prevents him from seeing anything, but Phil draws out the process so that every second is visualised in Clint’s mind. A hand curls around his wrist, lifting his arm from its boneless sag against the mattress, and warm lips trace a tingling pattern down the length of his limb from shoulder to palm. Clint’s heartbeat picks up again, his breathing growing shallower as goose-bumps break out over his skin at the tender touch. Then his arm is being lowered again, but at a right-angle to his body rather than parallel, angled towards the nearest bedpost where Clint assumes his partner has fastened the clip of the padded cuff to the hook Phil soldered into the metal frame months ago.

A moment later, the soft leather cuff encircles his wrist, the width of it enough to encompass two-thirds of his forearm, so that even the most strenuous escape attempts won’t restrict the blood-flow to his hand or cause excessive chafing.

Phil’s hand slides down the secured limb, then over his shoulder to cup the side of his throat. The man’s lips brush against Clint’s own.

“What do you say?” he prompts, his voice warm and low but with an edge of humour to it.

Clint’s lips twitch in a hazy smile, Phil’s warm breath mingling with his own as he shivers beneath him. He manages to lift his head just enough to lick Phil’s bottom lip daringly, and his cheekiness is answered by Phil’s hand sliding around to the front of his throat to give a warning squeeze.

“What do you _say_ , little boy?”

“Thank you, sir,” Clint manages, his voice shaky and hoarse and filthily wanton. “Please may I have another?”

The grip softens, and Phil’s lips meet his own again in a more lingering kiss, a clothed knee nudging between Clint’s bare legs. He whimpers at the friction, but knows better than to try and grind down on it, bearing the torturously intense pleasure by straining against the bond on his right wrist and gripping the bed sheets with his uncuffed hand.

Phil breaks the kiss only after several minutes of this teasing pressure, by which point Clint is whimpering out soft moans with every nasal exhale, muscles shaking with the effort it takes not to move his hips in response to the stimulation.

“Good boy,” he Dom murmurs, his tone warm with approval. The pressure between his legs is gone a moment later, and Clint is both mortified at the loss and intensely relieved that his period of torture has temporarily ceased (and he knows it’s only temporary, of course it is, Phil’s using the _cuffs_ tonight).

His left wrist is taken in a strong grip, and secured in the same slow, sensual way that the right had been, Phil’s lips lingering a little longer this time before deft fingers fasten the straps around his forearm. Clint doesn’t _get_ how Phil can be so patient. He’d heard his Dom’s voice after the spanking, heard his need and desire, the urgency in his tone; Clint’s pretty sure that, were he ever in Phil’s position (which ew, no, never), he’d be far too eager to crack on with the ‘fucking’ part to bother with any of the foreplay.

Which is why Clint’s eternally grateful that he’s not the Dom here. Because every touch, every slow, tender kiss, every second his partner takes to remind Clint that he _belongs_ to Phil, pushes him that much further down. He’s feeling pretty fucking amazing right now. And drunk. He’s feeling pretty drunk. Which is always, you know, a bonus.

Both wrists secured, Clint’s free to strain against his bonds when Phil decides to start marking up his chest with lovebites. First the sharp, deep-tissue ache of clenching teeth on his collarbone, followed immediately by wet, warm suction as Phil close his lips around the mark and sucks it into what will eventually be an oval-shaped bruise that’ll undoubtedly last a couple of days. And then there’s a soft, caressing tongue laving over the throbbing mark, soothing it, and the puff of cool air against his wet skin to make him shiver all the more. He’s moaning and arching at the first mark, and an incoherent, writhing mess of ‘ _please, please, please, please’_ by the fifth. He can tell by the weight distribution on the mattress that Phil’s laying alongside him, which explains the strength behind the hand that’s clamped down on Clint’s hip to keep his pelvis grounded as his Dom’s teeth bite him just below his navel. He _whines_ , legs scrabbling against the sheets, pulling against the cuffs on his wrists with a choked-off sob. He’s so hard it _hurts_.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Phil murmurs, and Clint shivers anew at the rough edge to his Dom’s voice. The hand on his hip moves, ghosting over his abdomen and chest, fingers lingering on the still-throbbing marks. “Fuck, Clint. Just look at you.”

“Ple-ease,” Clint gasps, breath hitching as fingers pinch at a pebbled nipple. “Hnng….fuck, please, sir. Wanna see you.”

“Oh you do, do you?” Phil’s tone is soft, teasing, the words a warm tickle of air against his jawline as Phil nuzzles him there.

Clint nods, but only a little, unwilling to interrupt the line of soft kisses Phil’s trailing along his throat and up behind his ear.

“Well…” his Dom muses between kisses, the finger and thumb of one hand pinching Clint’s other nipple in a way that makes the archer writhe beneath him. “I suppose you _have_ been very good for me.”

The kisses move across his cheek until a warm mouth can capture his own, and then Phil’s fingers are slipping around to the back of Clint’s head to untie his blindfold.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he murmurs, and waits a beat to allow Clint to obey before sliding the strip of cloth away.

His skin is immediately cold where the blindfold had once been, sweat and tears have dampened skin which is now rapidly drying in the cool air of the room. He obediently keeps his eyes shut, stilling beneath Phil when his Dom’s lips trail up his cheek slowly, before pressing gently to each eyelid.

“Stay,” Phil whispers. “I need to get something. But I won’t leave the room, I’ll be right here. Be good for me.”

Clint nods again, and regrets his easy acceptance a moment later when Phil’s warmth vanishes along with his body. He hasn’t gone far, Clint can still hear his movements over on the other side of the room, but this deep into subspace he doesn’t _like_ the separation. His heartbeat picks up again, but not in a good way, and it’s a genuine effort not to open his eyes and _look_ , but he knows that’s why Phil gave the order; a challenge. And Clint _can_ be good. He _will_ be.

Thankfully, his Dom returns before he runs out of willpower, and rewards Clint’s obedience in the best way possible. Clint shivers in a _very_ good way as Phil’s body moves over him, the warmth of his Dom’s bare skin against his own (and Jesus, fuck, when had Phil gotten _naked?_ ) setting his blood on fire again.

“You’re doing so well, Clint,” Phil tells him, and the younger man inwardly preens at the praise. (Outwardly he’s too busy whimpering at the friction of Phil’s hips against his own.) “Would you like to open your eyes?”

“Yes,” Clint blurts, a note of ragged desperation in his voice which he resolutely attributes to the fact that his Dom’s trying to grind him to death with his pelvis. “Yes, sir, please.”

The space of mattress beside his head dips a little, the weight of Phil’s torso against his own lightening, and he knows his Dom’s just braced himself up on one hand so that he can lean over Clint properly.

“Look at me,” comes the gentle order.

Eyelids fluttering, feeling stiff and a little tacky from both his previous bout of crying and his current subspace-induced fatigue, he blinks up blearily at his partner. Phil’s face is directly above his own, his expression tender as he stares down at Clint, but with a telling sort of glint in his eyes that speaks of his own arousal. The man’s lips curl at the corner, a quiet smile.

“There you are.” Phil dips down, stealing a soft, lingering kiss. It’s too tender, too gentle, and Clint feels like he might burst out of his skin with the sudden pulse of _need_ that hits him. The noise he makes must translate this somehow, because when Phil pulls away, he also snakes a hand down to palm Clint’s erection. “Shhh. I’ve got you.”

“Please,” Clint whimpers, hips twitching at the contact. He can’t say much else, his arousal overwhelming, his thoughts a jumbled haze ofwant and desire. “ _Please_ , sir…”

Phil kisses him again, silencing the whimpers, then moves his lips down the column of Clint’s throat, down his chest, over his abdomen. Strong hands hook beneath Clint’s knees, pushing them up and out until he’s spread in a wanton manner, feet braced against the mattress and legs bent at the knee. With his head propped up on the pillows, Clint can see _everything_. See the hungry look in Phil’s eye as he surveys the object of his desire, see the way his Dom reverently runs his hands up and down Clint’s inner thighs, the way his eyes cut to the archer’s as he opens the bottle of lube with a promising _click_. Clint’s breathing is rapid, shallow and uneven as he watches Phil liberally coat his fingers with the clear gel, his legs trembling in anticipation, cock twitching against his belly, evidence of his arousal glistening on the skin beneath his navel, adorning the red oval-shaped bruise that Phil left there earlier.

The pad of a single, lubed digit rubs against his puckered entrance, back and forth, wetting it. Clint had been expecting the touch, but he stills spasms at it; he’s dropped far enough now that even the smallest touch sets his nerve endings alight, and they’re particularly concentrated in his southern regions.

“That’s it,” Phil murmurs, pushing his index finger slowly inside. It’s a smooth, wet slide, Clint already boneless enough that he doesn’t tense up at the welcomed intrusion. “Open up for me, baby.”

His heart’s just about ready to jackrabbit out of his chest, and it’s only _one finger_. Jesus Christ. This is going to kill him. He strains against his cuffs, welcoming the pressure against his wrists, and chokes out a breathless moan as the finger starts to pump slowly in and out. Phil’s free hand is still stroking his inner thigh slowly, acting as both a reassurance and a means of keeping Clint’s legs spread. It feels fucking _incredible._ And when Phil’s middle finger bumps against his entrance on the next slide and pushes in effortlessly, it’s all Clint can do not to writhe wantonly beneath him. He can’t seem to catch his breath, each gulping inhale bursting from him in a moan or a whimper or a needy plea for mercy, all of which are ignored (well, not ignored, Clint can tell just how much Phil’s enjoying listening to them, but it doesn’t speed up his slow, meticulous fingerwork and that’s seriosuly a crying shame because Clint’s _dying_ here). The two fingers scissor inside him, stretching him but never _enough_ , even when two become three.

There’s enough lube that the in-out slide of Phil’s digits are audible even above Clint’s whines, and when his Dom pushes them in deeper and crooks his fingers _just so_ , the archer reaches his breaking point, arching off the mattress with a strangled sob-scream-moan as tears pool in his eyes.

“Please, no, sir, please, no more,” he begs, his voice sounding wrecked, the words stuttered between desperate, hitching breaths. Two hot, wet trails cutting down his temples from the corners of his eyes. “Need you in me, please, _please_ , no more. I...I can’t-!”

There’s a surge of movement, and suddenly Phil’s fingers are gone, his legs are being hitched up around a broad pair of hips, and his Dom’s looming over him once more. Phil kisses him, one hand braced against the mattress beside Clint’s head to support his weight, the other coming up to cup the archer’s cheek.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Phil murmurs against his lips, and Clint might just cry a little more out of relief, because he’s sunk that deep now, because crying feels _good_ , because Phil’s everywhere Clint needs him to be.

The thick head of his partner’s erection bumps against his wet entrance, and Clint manages a breathy _‘yesyesyesyes’_ before Phil thrusts firmly inside and speech fails him entirely. It’s as though his mind’s been waiting for this final push, this final act of dominance, before surrendering itself to the exquisite warmth of his swelling subspace, and Clint’s in _heaven_. Every thrust, every push-pull of Phil’s hardened length inside him, sends a shock of pleasure from the core of his body to his outermost peripheries. He can feel the orgasm building right from his _toes_.

Phil leans back a little, but only long enough to hitch Clint’s legs up higher so that the archer’s knees are hooked over his shoulders, bending him double as he looms back over the archer and resumes fucking him with slow, hard thrusts. The angle deepens the penetration, and the added stimulation to his prostate snatches the breath from Clint’s lungs for what feels like _minutes_. When he can finally draw in a deep, ragged, gasping breath, it explodes from him again in a desperate wail, the chain on his cuffs clanking as he strains again the hooks on the bedposts, the need to orgasm swelling to almost painful heights.

“That’s it,” Phil says again, and his voice is equally as wrecked now, strained and ragged and _gorgeous_. “Take it, Clint. Take it for me.” He has to stop talking to catch his breath, but his hips keep pounding, over and over, a steady rhythm that’s clearly designed to destroy Clint completely. “Fuck, you’re so good for me. So good.”

It’s too much and not enough at the same time. Nothing seems to exist outside of the two of them, the rest of the room a distant blur, no sounds or scents beyond Phil’s body and his own. And fuck, he’ll _die_ if he doesn’t come soon. Clint can’t articulate this much beyond a garbled, tearful _‘pleeease’_ , but that seems to do the trick. Phil’s thrusts grow quicker and more urgent in response, and through the sheen of tears in his eyes, Clint can see the tightness around Phil’s eyes that means he’s close.

And finally, _finally_ , Phil’s hand snakes down between them and unlatches the cock-ring from the base of Clint’s throbbing erection, sliding it off and tossing it aside without losing his rapid, forceful pace for so much as a second. Firm fingers fist around his throbbing member, too tight and too rough and _perfect_ , and Clint’s losing his tenuous hold on the swelling fire within him, the pressure too much to bear.

“Come for me, Clint,” Phil orders, and his voice has regained enough of its strength that the command hits the innermost parts of Clint’s conscious mind, obliterating all other coherent thought. “Let me see you, come on.”

Clint’s powerless to stop the way his back arches with the force of his orgasm, his body bucking beneath Phil like a man possessed as he shoots his load between them. It’s overwhelming in its intensity, to the extent that Clint can barely summon the breath to scream at the shockwave of pleasure that rocks through him. He’s pretty sure he whites out for a moment, because suddenly his Dom’s hips are stuttering to a stop against his own, his cock buried to the hilt, the warmth of his release erupting deep inside Clint as Phil grunts above him, stilling. And it’s _too much, too much, perfect, perfect, yesyesyes…_

Then his Dom’s lowering his head, resting his brow against the archer’s as he pants for breath, hips rocking slowly a few more times before he slowly pulls out. Clint’s pretty far gone by this point. He’s aware of Phil’s movements, aware of his close proximity and the warmth of his touch, and certainly aware enough to whimper at the empty feeling left behind as Phil slips out of him. But everything else is hazy. He can’t really feel his arms and legs. Or his face. And his ass should probably be aching, but it’s not. Everything’s just…buzzing. And it’s awesome and disconcerting in equal measure.

He must make some sort of inarticulate noise to communicate this, because Phil’s hands are cupping his face a moment later, lips brushing against his tearstained cheeks.

“You’re alright, baby,” Phil murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

He’s shaking, he realises dimly, but he doesn’t really mind. He feels too good to care about anything besides the warm, hazy, comforting cloud of bliss he’s still floating on. He blinks groggily at the ceiling when Phil’s face disappears, but he doesn’t have to worry about his Dom’s sudden departure for long, because the hands unfastening the straps on his cuffed wrists are indication enough. Both limbs are released, kissed, rubbed, kissed some more. It feels good, and Clint’s body decides to translate this sensation into a full-body shudder that has Phil crowding in close again. But Clint can’t find cause to complain, because he’s being rolled onto his side and pulled tightly against Phil’s chest and….mmmmm. That’s better.

Phil’s arms wrap around him securely, his skin warm and soft against Clint’s tingling nerves, the steady heartbeat beneath Clint’s ear helping to ground him. There’s a hand in his hair again, stroking slowly, and it feels so fucking _good_ that Clint’s body decides it’s time to cry a little more. Weird. He’s fucking happy, blissed out on cloud nine, but apparently this is how it’s going to manifest itself. Damn fucked-up subspace emotions.

“Shhh.” Phil’s fingers card through his hair again as a kiss is pressed against his temple. “I know. Just let it happen, I’m here.”

So he drifts a little more, warm and fuzzy and safe in Phil’s arms, his breath hitching every so often, his eyes hot and damp despite how good he’s feeling on the inside _and_ the outside. And Phil murmurs to him all the while, tender endearments and gentle words of praise, a blanket of verbal comfort that’s only reinforced by the strong arms that hold him close and the warm, solid chest he’s cuddled up against.

Coming up again is a slow process, but neither of them are in a hurry. The first sign is that Clint’s able to feel his arms properly again, and subsequently moves his hands up to rest against Phil’s chest, nestling in closer. The hand caressing his hair slides down to stroke his back instead, up and down along his spine, reawakening sensation there, too. Phil’s silent now, letting Clint take his time, letting him float slowly to the surface without further prompting.

I’s perhaps only a handful of minutes later that Clint takes a deep, shuddering breath and lifts his head a little from Phil’s shoulder to look at him.

His Dom smiles back, affection written into every weary line on his face, warmth and love in his eyes. He lifts a hand to cup Clint’s jaw, his thumb stroking along a cheekbone, leaning in to bump their noses together in a tender nuzzle.

“I love you,” Phil murmurs, softly but with conviction, and presses a short but firm kiss against Clint’s lips. “So much.”

Clint’s eyes flutter closed briefly, turning his cheek into the touch as he takes another deep, shuddering breath, swallowing past the aching lump in his throat.

“Love you too,” he manages, lips pressed against Phil’s palm. He still feels shaky, drained and exhausted and weakened in the wake of his drop, but there’s a deeper, more intimate part of him that feels _whole_ again, and nothing could ever top that. He feels more human than he’s been in two weeks, since the moment Phil left for Japan, the frustration and anxiety that had built up over that time now nothing more than a distant memory. He feels _awesome_.

Phil kisses his cheek, then tucks him back into the crook of his neck, cradling the back of Clint’s head with his hand.

“Sleep,” he instructs, even though things are shifting between them now, even though Phil’s his husband again rather than his Dom.

It’ll be different in the morning. They’ll wake up as equals, as partners, as Phil and Clint; the older man will drag Clint into the shower, and they’ll banter back and forth as they wash down, and his partner will laugh with exasperated fondness when Clint undoubtedly ends up squirting shower gel at him in retaliation for a teasing insult. Clint will cook them both breakfast while Phil makes a fresh pot of coffee and sets the table, and it’ll be casual, relaxed; companionable.

But that’s tomorrow. For now, Clint’s all too happy to follow one last order, to be good for Phil just a little bit longer, secure and safe in his partner’s arms. With a tired smile curling at his lips, he murmurs a sleepy _“yes, sir”_ and nestles in closer, eyes sliding closed as Phil’s arms tighten around him in return.

He’s asleep in less than a minute.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the feedback and kudos, I never expected to get so much support for what was really just a self-indulgent bit of D/s Phlint smut. :P 
> 
> I do take requests, and the array of kinks I'm into could span a dozen pages, so if there's anything anyone would like to read between this particular pairing, feel free to ask! I'd love to be able to cater to your fictional needs. 
> 
> Thanks again! <3


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